


This Time, Baby, I'll Be Bulletproof

by FlashFlashFlash



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: I'm trying okay, Louisa Juliet 'Louie' Wentz, M/M, Mpreg, Unplanned Pregnancy, i'm bad at americanisms help, if you've literally read anything else by me you'll know that my proofreading is shit, pregnant!patrick, there are other characters but i'm too lazy to tag them all, updates may be sporadic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 19:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12019206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashFlashFlash/pseuds/FlashFlashFlash
Summary: Pete knows he can't make Patrick take the kids to school as soon as he wakes up. The sound of his husband's vomiting echoes around the ensuite bathroom, and he wants to stay, rub Patrick's back and tell him he's okay, but he also knows that if he doesn't wake his kids up soon, they're going to be late for school. Pete hates having to choose.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, okay, I promise most of this is written already! I was going to post it all in one, but I gave up because it's been a little while since I've posted a fic. Read the tags, read the summary, and prepare yourself.  
> Author xx (idk if that's creepy or not?)

"Daddy, where's Mommy?" Louie asks quietly, as Pete brushes her blonde hair back into a pony tail. 

"Mommy isn't feeling well at the moment, sweetie," Pete replied calmly, smoothly. He sets down the hairbrush on Louie's dresser and considers his next move. "Blue ribbon, or yellow and white?" 

"Blue, please," Louie's tone is polite, a trait she'd definitely inherited from Patrick. "Will Mommy pick me up later? From school?"

"Maybe, hopefully, but if he's not there, Auntie Marie will take you, okay?" 

"Okay," Louie hops down from her little step when Pete finishes tying the bow in her hair. Her pale skin is clean and unmarked against the white of her perfectly-laundered playsuit. Pete has Patrick to thank for their children's immaculate clothing. Louie's red Chucks stand out against her natural colour palette, but they match her school satchel, and that had been the most important thing to her when she had asked for them. 

"LOUIE! HURRY UP!" Bronx yells from downstairs, evidently growing impatient in having to wait for his little sister. 

"She's coming!" Pete calls back, taking his daughter's hand and leading her down the stairs; she was quite a petite little girl, and often asked for help with stairs, even at the age of four. Bronx is stood in the hallway, backpack at the ready, and seems a little pissed off. 

"You take so long to get ready," he huffs. Louie just shrugs.

"Come on, let's go," Pete says, laughing, and pulling his children out of the front door, embarking upon that morning's school run. 

When Pete returns to his home, around forty minutes later, he calls out for his husband. "Patrick? Are you up?" 

"Bathroom," Patrick replies, groaning. Pete bounds up the stairs and into the master bedroom, practically diving past the mess of sheets and sliding into the ensuite. Patrick is on his knees, hunched over the toilet bowl, his skin an alarming shade of white. 

"Jesus, those kids sure do talk a lot." Pete laughs, and kneels down next to Patrick, a hand finding his back. "I don't know how you do it every day." 

"You didn't have to take them." Patrick leans his head on Pete's shoulder. "You should have gone to work; I'd've managed." 

"No, baby, no. You need looking after. Anyway, you would've thrown up trying to make them breakfast, and nobody wants that." In response, Patrick shrugs like he understands, and breathes deeply. Pete kisses the back of his neck. "I love you." 

"The feeling isn't mutual right now," Patrick says, leaning further over the toilet bowl. He vomits loudly, and Pete grimaces, rubbing his back in circles. "You did this to me, you fucking bastard." 

"So, you're sure?" Pete perks up. "You took a test?"

"Not yet, but, I'm, like, ninety-nine percent sure. I keep getting sick, my hormones are batshit crazy, and we haven't used a condom since we ran out nearly six months ago. Trust me, Pete. I'm pregnant."

"I think you should take a test anyway." Pete flushes the toilet and Patrick sits back. "Just to be certain?"

"Yeah, okay, I'll do it later." 

"Do it now, you might as well."

"There are some in the cabinet under the sink..." Patrick's stomach flips. "I'll take them when I haven't got a primal urge to vomit."

-

"Two positives; I'm pregnant." Patrick sighs happily. "Book me a doctor's appointment." 

"Yes!" Pete fist pumps ecstatically. "The Wentz sperm strike again! Hat trick!"

"Pete, shut up, that's weird." 

"Yes, dear." Pete quickly lowers his hand and dips his head. He chances a glance up, and sees Patrick setting his tests on the marble counter, grinning. "Good mistake, I reckon." 

"Yeah." Patrick nods. Pete steps forward, and slips his arms around Patrick's waist from behind, placing his hands above their baby. The moment is sweet, and has a certain quality reminiscent of a previous occasion much like this one, until- "The cost of the crib says it's another girl." 

"Deal."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't think of a witty title, so I gave up. Sorry. The ending is kinda weird, but it exists, which is more than is to be expected.  
> Author xx

"Honestly, Dale, I'm fine." Patrick tries (for what feels like the hundredth time) to assure his mother-in-law that he's okay. His pregnancy so far has been just over four weeks of not being able to keep his food down for long, crying at How I Met Your Mother reruns, and silently cradling his stomach in bed at night as Pete jerks off beside him, having refused sex until he feels sexy again (which, if Patrick's first pregnancy was anything to go by, will come like a ton of bricks at seventeen weeks). 

Today, Pete and Patrick are having lunch with Pete's parents, having already been pregnancy-outed a few days previously when Dale came over to see them and spied the test box in the trash. Patrick has been trying desperately to remain composed, and had been doing well for a while, but had gagged violently when Dale set down the plate of cold cuts. As a vegetarian, Patrick wouldn't have been expected to eat them anyway, but perhaps that was what made the smell that bit worse. Peter II had frowned and asked if he wanted to lie down, as Dale moved the meat as far away from Patrick as she could muster while it remained on the table. Pete opened the window, and the autumn Chicago air was cold, but all the fussing was beginning to make the room feel warmer to Patrick than ever. 

"I just don't want you sitting there feeling miserable and not telling us. I know how hard pregnancy can be, and I want you to tell me if you're not feeling great." Dale dumps some potato salad onto her son's plate, despite protests and whines about eating vegetables. "You're too polite, always have been." 

"I'll have to agree with my wife on that one, son." Peter II smiles apologetically.

"Really, though. I'm okay." Patrick smiles, and rubs his stomach in a circle. He's lying. He's fighting a gag with every mouthful of rocket and tomato ciabatta sandwich, feeling a little like a nauseous rabbit. His stomach feels full of baby, tiny body controlling his great mass like a puppet master would their creation. Patrick takes a sip of orange juice, but catches a whiff of the cold cuts as a gust of wind whips around the room, carrying the smell towards him. His face pales; his hands go clammy. "Shit," he mutters.

Pete's warm hand slides up Patrick's back, soothing expertly. "Baby, are you okay?" 

Patrick shivers involuntarily, and coughs weakly. 

"I have to pee," he blurts the lie to protect his dignity at least a little, almost beginning to feel the room sway around him. "Excuse me." He pushes his chair back, letting the legs scrape against the slate flooring noisily. He's flying from the room on an instant, one hand pressed tightly to his upper stomach, and the other clutching the area just below, the thick skin and fat underneath which his unborn child resides. 

Patrick finds the downstairs bathroom pretty quickly, having already used it many a time, especially at the end of his last pregnancy, when every kick seemed to be aimed at his bladder. Pete follows him dutifully, and he locks the door behind them with a key Patrick didn't know existed, muttering something about his mother as Patrick groans, grabbing at the ridging on the wall as he eases himself onto his knees before the toilet. Patrick heaves, making an unhealthy noise that he thinks will ruin his voice for rehearsal later. He doesn't bring up a lot, but it's there, and it burns, and it looks horrible in the watery mess of the toilet bowl. He reaches up to flush, but Pete beats him to it. 

"I did this to you, so you should at least let me flush the toilet for you." Pete pushes on the little silver handle. It's not until the water has drained away, and Patrick thinks he feels a little bit better, that he speaks again. 

"I think-" Patrick laughs a teeny, tiny laugh. "I think we have to name our baby after Joe."

"Patrick, dearest, what the fuck are you talking about?" 

"When I had Louie, you promised Joe that the next baby would be named after him." 

"He won't remember, baby." Patrick feels sick again, so he doesn't reply, but he has a funny feeling that Joe will, in fact, remember. He makes a noise that sounds a bit like something a baby would utter if it felt sick, hormonal and weighted down with second baby weight gain. "You gonna throw up again?" 

Patrick nods solemnly, lazily, and heaves some bile into the toilet bowl. 

"That's it," Patrick moans, wiping away a tear from his right eye before it has chance to fall and/or catch Pete's eye. "I'm ready to go eat more potato salad and talk about book groups." There's a bit of awkward shuffling and mouth-rinsing before Pete unlocks the door, and the couple leave the bathroom, hands locked. 

In the hallway, Dale brandishes their coats at them, sympathetic smile warm and oddly reassuring. 

"Go, home, dear." She presses Patrick's coat into the crook of his arm. "Go home, put on some comfortable clothes, and enjoy the rest of your kids-free weekend as best you can. If you're going to have horrible morning sickness, you should at least have the luxury of being sick in your own toilet."

Patrick wants to cry with relief. In fact, he does. He cries and cries, and he doesn't stop crying until he gets home and puts on his sweatpants, because boy, are they more comfortable than jeans.


	3. Bingo O'Clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk of anyone will get the title, but I'm just gonna leave it, okay?   
> Author xx

"So, Daddy and I have something very special to tell you." Patrick is almost struggling to speak, because his jeans are so tight around his swollen stomach. Pete had insisted they tell their children before heading out maternity shopping. 

"Are we getting a dog?" Louie looks so excited that it breaks her parents' hearts to have to tell her the truth. 

"Not quite, sweetheart, I'm sorry," Patrick pleads apologetically. "It's even more important than that."

"What could possibly be more important than a dog?" Bronx scoffs, genuinely perplexed. 

"A baby."

"Oh, yeah, I guess so, but- wait! What?!"

"I'm pregnant, Bronx. Louie, you know what that means, sweetheart?" Patrick puts a hand on his tummy to give her a hint. He can see the cogs turning in her brain, the dyslexic hands ticking and making a decision. 

"Mommy's having a baby!" Louie bounces up and down in her seat, dressing gown flapping, endlessly pleased with herself for figuring it out. "Mommy's having a baby!" She sing-songs.

"Yeah! That's right, sweetie," Pete smiles and puts a hand on Patrick's thigh. He rubs up and down gently. "We have to go shopping to buy Mommy some new clothes, because they don't fit when the baby grows!" 

"Where are your old maternity clothes? Can't you wear those?" Bronx tries his hardest not to look too pleased about the news, and fiddles with the drawstring on his pyjama pants. 

"I gave most of them away." Patrick leans back against the sofa and shuts his eyes. "And I really regret that." 

"So, we're going shopping?!" Bronx gasps. 

"We sure are, buddy," Pete laughs. "You two need to get some proper clothes on."

Bronx and Louie snap their heads towards each other, locking eyes. 

"Race you upstairs!"


	4. Damnit, Pete!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Woot!   
> As usual, there's a distinct lack of proofreading.   
> Aminta xx

"So, there was a reason we invited you guys out today." Patrick swallows, then grins at Pete. They had invited Joe, Marie and Andy out for dinner, now taking a stroll, breathing in the sharp autumn air as they wandered around the park. The sun was long gone, but street lamps illumated each face with a buttery glow. "We have something to tell you guys."

"Ooh! Let me guess!"  
Marie squeals. "You're getting a dog!" 

"Not quite," Pete chuckles, his hand clasped around Patrick's, looking at Marie, to his right. "Louie guessed a dog, too." 

"You're moving?" Joe pipes up, as Marie slides an arm around his waist. He's already got a sneaking suspicion that he's far from right. 

"Nope!" Patrick shakes his head.

"I got nothin'," Andy (on Patrick's left) says, pretending to sound defeated. He's not defeated; he has everything. His eyes dart quickly in the darkness to Patrick's very slightly protruding stomach beneath his thick coat, and thinks that, perhaps, too many Twizzlers are not to blame for this extra weight.

"The suspense is killing us," Joe whines jokily. 

"We're expecting again." Patrick beams, and suddenly there are three pairs of arms all grappling for a hug. "I'm sixteen weeks," he says, awkwardly smiling at Pete (who's trying to capture the scene before his eyes with his phone camera) over the top of Marie's hair. There's silence as the 'hug' continues for a little longer, but then Pete clears his throat. 

"Guys? Please, stop crushing my husband and unborn child. I'd like them back in one piece." 

Andy shuffles away first, clapping Pete on the back as a congratulations. Joe and Marie step away, and Andy turns to Patrick, grinning. "I mean, I had kinda... wondered. You do look a little..." Andy makes round gestures about his stomach.

"I fucking dare you to finish that sentence, Hurley," Pete growls. "You call my husband fat, and cut your balls off with Bronx's paper scissors."

"I wasn't- I mean, Patrick looks great, I mean, uh-" Andy splutters. "It's that, you know, that glowy, bump shape thing..." 

"We need those scissors for arts and crafts, Pete. Don't give them up so easily. Bronx really loves making paper snowflakes." Patrick rubs at his stomach. "They keep him distracted while I'm throwing up in the bathroom." 

"Morning sickness sucks, huh?" Marie laughs. 

"It's gotten a little better since I hit twelve, but some smells are just, like, urghhh..." Patrick shivers. "I threw up in a trash can in the school playground the other day because one of the moms brought tacos. I mean, seriously, who brings their nine year old tacos after school?"

Joe snorts, and slaps Pete on the back. "Good luck with the next five months of your life, dude." 

"Are you gonna find out the sex?" Andy muses, leading the group toward the park's exit. 

"I think so, it's easier to pick names, then." Patrick rubs his bump. "So far, we've got three for a girl."

"Oooh! Tell us!" Marie claps her hands. 

"Uh, Connie, like Constance, Harper, and, uh..." Patrick laughs. "Josephine."

"Shit! No way! That's- God, you remembered!" 

"Of course, dude!" Pete grins. "And for boys, we've got, get hyped, guys -Oscar, Willow, and Quinn." 

"No Andrew?" Andy pouts. 

"Next one, dude, next one." 

"Pete!"


	5. I've Got All This Ringing In My Ears, And On My Finger, Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lame title, sucky editing -you know the drill.   
> Aminta x

Patrick is home alone when he feels it. He's bouncing on his fitness ball, scrolling through Twitter, and rubbing his tummy through his supportive band, vest and specially made Panic! shirt (a gift from Brendon when he discovered that Patrick was expecting again). His favourite maternity jeans, black, and a retained purchase from his first pregnancy, are starting to look a little washed out, faded, almost, because they've been through the machine so many times, but they're comfortable, and at this stage, that's all that's important to Patrick. He's wearing some monochrome socks that belong to Pete, decorated with a bartskull reminiscent of his tattoo, and his glasses under a maroon beanie. 

Patrick runs his hand over his twenty week bump, shivering at the feeling, and feels a tiny foot boot in the general direction of his belly button. He's felt quite a lot of light kicks already during this pregnancy, but this is the first one that he thinks is really outwardly visible. Baby kicks again, and Patrick nearly drops his phone, stilling his gentle movement on his fitness ball, watching a little lump grow and disappear on his round stomach. 

"Hey, sweetheart," he whispers, trying his hardest not to feel silly. "I'm Mommy, but I think you know that already." Patrick feels another sickening shift in his tummy, and there's another kick at the top of his bump. He dials for Pete, deciding that whatever fancy record label meeting he's in can wait. He picks up on the third ring. 

"Hey, is everything okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I just-"

"Can you tell me later? I'm kinda busy right now," Pete pleads, though perhaps a little unconvincingly.

"Uh, yeah, sure," Patrick replies. Tears spring to his eyes, and he can't help but snuffle as he wipes his eyes. 

"Are you crying? What's wrong?"

"I'm fine, it's just that baby's kicking really hard -you can see my stomach moving, like Louie used to, and I-" Patrick gasps a little as he feels another jolt. "I'm a little bit... I don't know, I think I just want you."

"Do I need to come home?" Pete almost prays that the answer is yes, so that he can slip back into his boring-ass meeting and tell them that his pregnant husband needs him, and that, if that's not a good enough excuse to leave, he'll do it anyway. 

"I don't know, I want you to see it, and feel baby moving, but it's not like it's going to stop between now and tonight."

"I think I should come home, Patrick. You sound pretty upset-"

"No! Pete, stay at work, I'm fine-"

"I'm coming home, buying whatever crazy food you want, running you a bath, and I'm picking up Louie tonight, no arguing, okay?" Pete says, re-entering the meeting room. "I'm sorry, everybody, but my husband needs me, so I'm going home!"

"Pete, seriously, it's just my hormones-"

"Which is exactly why you need me to come and help you relax. Now, what are you craving?" Pete speaks slowly, as he might to a child that didn't quite understand something. 

Patrick considers resisting further, but another firm upwards kick changes his mind. "Pears and hummus," he says reluctantly. 

"I'll be there in half an hour. Wait up for me."


	6. the calm before the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update might be a little while, but I hope this fills a gap for now!   
> Aminta xx

Pete shuts the door behind himself, sighing, and leaning back, against it, enjoying the last few moments of silence before his kids come bounding down the stairs in their pyjamas, screaming and jumping, while Patrick begins to cry as he follows because, damnit, Pete, they were nearly ready. He takes a breath, listening out for the pitter patter of slippered feet coming down the oak floor stairs, the elephant-esque bare feet of his son pounding above him, or the second trimester pregnancy shuffle of slightly swollen ankles in thick socks with little grippy bits on the bottom. Pete listens, leans a little more heavily on the door, and listens harder. 

Nothing. 

Nothing, except the faint sounds of the TV on in the living room down the hall. To Pete, it sounds distinctly like Teen Mom, which means that MTV is on, and MTV is never on when the kids are at home... Pete thinks something, and has to mentally tell himself off for praying that he's right. He drops his satchel next to the pair of little blue wellington boots with ladybirds on them, accidentally crushing Patrick's navy chucks with the weight of the label's paperwork for the weekend. 

"Honey?" Pete calls, a little wary due to the lack of small hands pulling on his tie. "Patrick, honey?"

"Pete!" Patrick yells back, sounding excited, but a little muffled. The sounds of Patrick huffing and puffing as he tries to get up, off of the couch in his heavily impregnated state come soon after, and Pete smiles to himself as he kicks off his shoes. A quiet bit shuffling as Patrick makes his way across the living room is comforting, Pete thinks, taking a step forward and hanging his jacket upon the hook with his name written on it. He takes another few steps, and then Patrick appears in the doorway into the living room. 

Patrick is wearing an old pair of baggy sweatpants with little bobbles all over them from being washed too many times, and a Fall Out Boy tee from Cork Tree days underneath a faded hoodie decorated with little mushrooms. He's got a big white-looking stain on the front of his top, probably ice cream, judging by the almost empty pint sized tub of Ben and Jerry's cookie dough in his right hand. On his feet, Patrick has a pair of thick burgundy bed socks that his mother had bought him, and, of course, because this is Patrick, on his head, a baby blue beanie that's far too big. 

And Pete thinks this is in his top five of most beautiful things he's ever seen. Under that old tee, Pete knows there's a baby, their baby. He can see the exact shape of Patrick's bump, he can see the droop in his eyes from late pregnancy sleep issues, he can see the arch in his back from trying to support thirty weeks of baby wherever he goes, and it is absolutely beautiful.

"Hey, baby. You look gorgeous." Pete grins. Patrick blushes, and puts his on the underside of his stomach, dropping his head a little. Pete loves that he can still make Patrick like this with something so simple after so many years. "Where are Bronx and Louie?" 

"My mom took them," Patrick says, smiling, as Pete closes the gap between them, hands around his missing waist, and presses a kiss to Patrick's forehead. "I was going to get dressed up for you, in my thigh highs, so we could have some fun," Patrick whispers. He turns his head up a little more and catches Pete in a sweet kiss, laced with a fumbling virgin-like nervousness -it's been weeks since they've had time to kiss properly. Patrick's rounded stomach rests against Pete's abdomen, a washboard by comparison. "But Marie texted me and to tell me there was new Teen Mom on, and then I realised I had a full pint of ice cream, so..."

"We don't need fancy clothes to have fun, baby." Pete grins. "You're still sexy to me." His hands snake down to Patrick's ass, taking a great fistful, and squeezing tightly. "You're always sexy to me." 

"There's an ice cream stain on my shirt bigger than either of our children have ever managed." 

"Shhh..." Pete chuckles quietly, watching intently as Patrick bites his lip. "What do you say to putting that ice cream back in the freezer and fetching those thigh highs?" 

"I thought you said we didn't need them?" Patrick lowers his voice. Baby (whose gender still remains unknown) kicks forward with considerable force, and Pete makes an exaggerated 'oompf' noise. 

"They're so hot, Patrick. You're so hot in them." The couple gaze into each other's eyes for a few moments, revelling in the bliss of being alone, being able to take their time. Today, they have time for kissing, foreplay, soft little touches and gentle lovemaking, rather than a rushed fuck in the ensuite bathroom while Bronx's football and Louie's ballet overlap on a Tuesday evening. Today, they have time to be Patrick and Pete, not Mommy and Daddy, even if some positions do seem to be out of the picture due to their latest work in progress. "How about those thigh highs 'round about now?" 

"I'm wearing maternity sweatpants, Pete. Do you know how big you have to be to need maternity sweatpants? All I would do is lie there once you got me on the bed."

"Why are you protesting, baby? What you need is a good fuck, a back rub and someone to watch Teen Mom with for three hours afterwards," Pete says smoothly. He drops his head to Patrick's ear, and whispers, "I can do that. You know I can." He places a light kiss below Patrick's earlobe. 

"I guess a round wouldn't hurt..." Patrick breathes. Pete already knows he's sold. "And my back is kinda tight..."

"Then what are we waiting for?"


	7. Baby, You’re Breaking Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! This is kinda short and a little bit cheesy, but we’re nearing the end, now!  
> Aminta x

Patrick leaned heavily on his mic stand, the roar of the crowd surging through his head and distracting him from the dull ache in his lower back that had begun to make itself apparent. Pete giggled as the band's instruments petered out. 

"Guys, let me tell you a cute story!" He turned to look at Patrick, beaming. "Last night, Patrick couldn't sleep on the bus because the beds are, like, really, really thin, and that doesn't seem to mesh well with being thirty-two weeks pregnant-" the crowd screams. "So, our nine-year-old, and our four-year-old, they got all the cushions and the blankets and made a den! It's was so cute, oh my god. There was only room for one, was it comfy, Patrick?" 

"More so than the bunk." Patrick shrugged a little. "I don't know how many of you guys have ever been pregnant, but it turns out it's, like, so hard to sleep? Cause your back hurts and you can't lay in any normal positions cause your baby won't let you." He laughs, gripping at the pain in his lower back. "Can I get, like, a chair?" 

"Patrick, are you sad that this is your last show before you give birth?" Joe asks, moving out of the way as an intern stagehand runs past, a tall wooden stool with a backrest in hands. 

"Kinda, I mean, I'm so done being pregnant now. I'm like, seven months, but I feel really blobby and heavy, it's not fun." Patrick quietly thanks the stagehand, making a mental note to buy him a pizza later, and sighs in relief as he takes his seat, adjusting the mic height. 

"Baby, you're not blobby and heavy!" Pete grins at his husband, eliciting a scream from the crowd. "You're beautiful." 

“You know what else is beautiful?” Patrick shortens his guitar strap now that he’s sitting down. 

“Vegan pizza?” Andy guesses.

“No, but good guess,” Patrick laughs. “What’s beautiful is out next song.” Patrick poises himself to begin playing. “This next one is an old one! You guys know the words!” And, then, the entire arena is singing with him.

“Where is your boy tonight...”


	8. Other Times, the Universe Sends Joe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Badly ended, but not soooo awful...   
> Aminta x

“For fuck’s sake, Joe!” Patrick yells, leaning on the guitarist’s kitchen counter with one hand, and rubbing his stomach with the other. “Call Pete already!”

“I tried, but he didn’t pick up!” 

“Just get him on the phone, Joseph!” Patrick attempts done deep breaths to calm his temper, widening his stance a little for comfort. He feels a sharp kick, and a wave of undeniable nausea. He groans. 

“Don’t give birth on my kitchen floor, okay?” Joe warns, phone in hand. 

“I’m not giving birth, idiot.” Patrick sighs, remarkably calm. “The contractions are too far apart; they’re only just getting regular.” 

“You need anything?” 

“Last time, I was sick like nothing on earth by the time they hit twenty-five minutes apart, so a bowl might be good.” 

“Here.” Joe carefully guides Patrick around the island, so he’s directly in front of the sink. “Just lean if you have to puke,” he says, clicking the ‘call’ button by Pete’s name again, and grimacing as Patrick whines again. 

“Glamorous.” Patrick spits. The phone rings for a few seconds, but not for long. 

“Pete! Ah, thank god! I was starting to think you’d never pick up!” 

“Sorry, I was forcing Louie into the car seat -she’s having a paddy, I can’t get her to -Bronx! Leave that alone! No, damnit, Louie, sit still!” Pete grunts with frustration, and it’s like Joe can hear him pulling out his hair. 

“Take them to your mom’s house, dude,” Joe says, panicking a little as Patrick scrunches his face up, rubbing at his lower back. 

“Why? As tempting as that sounds right now, none of their stuff is packed, and-“

“Dude, Patrick’s in labour.”

“Oh.” There’s a second of silence, bar Bronx yelling something about pressing buttons in the background. “Shit.” 

“Damn right, ‘shit’.” 

“I’ll do that, thanks, dude... Oh, god, shit, this is really happening. Three kids. Wow, shit. Shit. I’ll stop by yours as soon as I can, okay? Shit...” 

“How many times is he gonna say ‘shit’ before he realises that he needs to get a move on here?” Patrick whines, sliding his hand from his back to his tummy and bracing himself, leaning his other elbow on the island counter. “These contractions are closer together than I thought...”

“Pete, get you ass over here as soon as you fucking can.” 

“On it. Bye.”

The room goes quiet for a few moments after Pete hangs up. Patrick takes deep breaths through his contraction, and tries to distract himself with the prospect of dressing his baby in the cute yellow onesie and matching hat in his hospital bag. He feels a growing wetness between his legs, and for one second he thinks he’s wet himself, but then it won’t stop, no matter how hard he tries to make it do so, and his jeans are absolutely fucking soaked. 

“Ohhhh...” he whimpers, as the clear liquid begins to pool a little at his feet. “Joe, help...” his voice pathetic, all Patrick can do is mumble. 

“What’s wrong?” Joe looks like an answer of anything but ‘nothing’ might make him pass out. “Do you need to push? ‘Cause I’m not qualified for that.” 

“No,” Patrick pants, shifting, and causing another little wave of amniotic fluid to race down his leg. “My waters are going, I just need you to get me new clothes...” Patrick tries to remain calm, but it’s hard. Sometimes, in desperate times, the universe sends exactly what Patrick needs, like three-for-two bags of skittles or a big Pete bear-hug. Other times, it sends Joe. 

“Don’t panic, okay? It’s gonna be fine -you can give birth on my couch!” Joe’s offer is not comforting in the least. 

“I don’t need to push! For God’s sake, Joe! Get me my hospital bag, and call my fucking mom! I want my Mommy!” He wails in pain, yearning for a back rub or a sip of his mom’s lemonade. 

“Hospital bag, mom... I can do that.”


	9. It’s Go Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update, yay! Cringy (??) labour scene...  
> Aminta x

Patricia tries not to shiver when Patrick throws up for the fifth time. She’s unsuccessful. Despite having three children, she’s never been particularly good at dealing with vomit, and it’s one of her only major parental (/grandparental) flaws. The midwife shoots her a little look reminiscent of sympathy, but then goes back to busily tidying away the used sick bowl and reminding Pete of how properly to rub Patrick’s back to alleviate a little of the pain. 

“Did you have gas and air with your first?” She places a hand on Patrick’s, which is gripping the handle for the gas and air, even though it’s off. 

“No...” Patrick groans, staring down at his feet swinging off the edge of the bed in his burgundy bed socks to take his mind off of the building contraction. Pete, also sat on the edge of the bed, next to him, rubs circles firmly in his lower back with the heel of his hand. “Higher, Pete.” 

Pete wordlessly complies. 

“You might want to try it, just to see if it helps at all, seeing as your contractions are so close now.”

“I had gas and air with my second, and with Patrick,” Trisha says. “It made all the difference.” 

The midwife nods.

“How many centimetres dilated did you say I was?” Patrick breathes out slowly.

“About eight, probably closer to nine.” 

Patrick tries to reply in a calm manner, but it comes out as a lot of pained yelling and him shoving the mouthpiece back at the midwife so that he has a free hand with which to hurt Pete. He throws his head back, feeling that immense downwards pressure layering over the pain, and he knows. He knows it’s time. When the contraction ends, he says to the midwife, “Can you check? Again? I feel- oh, ow, shit!” A downwards surge. “I wanna push, I gotta push...” 

“Lie back, knees apart for me,” the midwife says far too cheerily. Pete hops off the bed, and grips Patrick’s hand as he moves into position, taking his seat beside his mother-in-law. There’s a lot of moaning and whimpering on Patrick’s end as the examination takes place, but then the words are there. 

“You’re right, Patrick. Ten centimetres, fully dilated. It’s time to push.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re so very nearly there!   
> Aminta x

“Josephine Constance Andréa Wentz...” Patrick mulls over the name. “Bit of a mouthful, don’t you think?” 

“Nah, it suits her! She’s fancy, you’re fancy, it’s cute, and I love you.” Pete says everything in his brain all at once, with slightly less catastrophic events than he expected. 

“Are you just saying that because I birthed two of your children, or are you being legitimate?” Patrick grins, unable to keep his eyes from the tiny breathing bundle in Pete’s arms. 

“Both, babe. She’s awesome, I love her already, but I’d’ve loved you just the same without all this.” He smiles. “Your ability to grow perfect little girls just gives me more reasons to love you.”

“So you don’t mind if I tell you that’s the last one?” Patrick asks softly, twisting his engagement ring around his finger by the diamond. 

“‘Course not, baby. Your decision, but, if you change your mind,” Pete leans into Patrick so their faces are close. “Making babies with you is really, really fun.”

“I’ve messed up my body twice for you, Pete.” A sweet kiss. “Sweet talk me all you want, if I’m ever on the receiving end of another prenatal internal examination, I’ll kill you.”

“It was you that suggested we ‘let fate decide’ when those condoms ran out!” Pete scoffs, shaking his head and looking back down at his youngest daughter. 

“Please, I was just too needy to go to the store before we had sex.”

Josephine gurgles, and her parents look on, praying she won’t cry, or poop. 

“I wonder what we’ll call her.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I haven’t called Louie ‘Louisa’ in forever; I reckon the kids’ll rename her.” Pete slowly passes Josephine back over.

“Josie, maybe?” Patrick placed his hand under her head. “Something cute, I hope. Preferably as unnoticeably a derivative of ‘Joseph’ as possible.”

“Can’t let it go to his head, can we, now?” 

-

The next day, Pete writes the fated tweet, following his children and bandmates’ first meetings with his new daughter. He captions a picture of Patrick holding their tiny baby, dressed in that pale yellow onesie Patrick had obsessed over, with a smile on his face: 

@petewentz: Josephine Constance Andréa might sound pretentious to you, but it looks nice in @PatrickStump’s cursive. So glad you’re finally here, Joey!

And, yes, Patrick is a little miffed that Bronx didn’t look beyond the obvious, but, when he saw the look on Joe’s face, it was worth it.


	11. Questions, Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter! Woot!  
> Aminta xx

Pete’s third impatient knock on the door is a little louder than the first two. 

“Pete!” Patrick hisses. “Don’t wake her; you know how long it took me to get her down!” 

“Sorry, babe, it’s just so cold out here!” Pete whines in response, rubbing his hands together. 

“It’s your fault of you’re cold. It’s February, we live in Chicago, and I told you to bring a thicker coat.” 

Pete just grunts, and waits for his mother to open the door. When Dale finally gets there, Pete has knocked total of five times, and even Patrick has given in to the chattering of his teeth after the chilly rush that is a consequence of worriedly unzipping his jacket to tuck Joey inside it. Patrick seriously hopes that tiny, week-and-half old baby girls have better defences against the cold than he does (although the extra weight on his post-baby hips and stomach are proving quite useful) but he doubts it. The lock clicks open, the door swings wide, and there is Dale, in her thick sweater, cosy and warm, motherly arms extended. 

“There you are! I was starting to think you’d never get here!” 

Patrick thinks he hears Pete mutter something like, “Tell me about it,” under his breath, but chooses to ignore it in favour of being able to feel his extremities again. They let themselves be ushered in, and their coats removed, a promise of hot tea already brewing in the kitchen. When Patrick unwraps Joey’s ‘outside blanket’, Dale gasps. 

“There she is again! My little granddaughter! Such a sweetheart, isn’t she?” 

“My pelvis doesn’t think so right now,” Patrick laughs half heartedly, and in his eyes, Pete glimpses that stunning vision of Joey’s head protruding from between his poor legs, hears that endless groan of effort and pain, feels the slippery newborn skin and hair on the bare pads of his fingers when the midwife asks if he wants to feel, and he says yes, even though Patrick is babbling about needing to push again. He remembers the sudden shift as Joey’s shoulders slipped out, the relief on Patrick’s exhausted red face, and those shaking arms reaching down between his own legs to grab that tiny body and pull her to his chest. Pete shivers. He does not want to be Patrick’s pelvis a week and a half after such a great ordeal. “Do you mind if I take a potentially unsafe quantity of prescription pain killers?” 

“Be my guest, dear. I know that feeling all to well, and I shan’t have you in pain under my roof where possible.” Dale swiftly takes Joey from Patrick’s arms, and ushers them into the living room while he roots through the baby bag for his Tramadol. 

“Congratulations, son,” Mr Wentz stands as the couple enter the living room, Patrick fiddling with his water bottle and a sheet of pills. Peter II hadn’t yet met his youngest grandchild, and was quick to sit back down again, along with Pete and Patrick, ready to receive her from Dale beside him. “Very beautiful,” he says, taking the newborn into his chest. “Josephine, hey? You’re a little lady already, aren’t you?” He boops her nose with his pinky finger. “How was the birth?” He doesn’t look up. 

“Well, I went into labour at Joe’s house, had my waters go all over his kitchen floor, vomited on the floor of the hospital admissions room, grunted for about five hours, and then popped her out, so, pretty well, I guess.”

“Sounds it!” Peter grins down at his grandchild, and says, “Three’s a good number of kids. Not quite got your hands full, one in each, four between the two of you, you know, so there’s always room to grow if you want to, and they’re never lonely.” 

“I think that might be it, now, Dad.” Pete laughs nervously. 

“Never rule it out! You’ve got a good couple of years left, and I always thought I’d have lots of grandkids.” 

“I can ask Ashlee if we could borrow hers? They’re related to Bronx, so they count, right?” Patrick tries his best to step out of the biological booby trap. 

“I guess so,” Peter mulls over the matter for a second. “But, if you change your mind, I’d love to see the family name live on a little longer...”

“Family name? All three are We-“ Patrick stops, and his eyes flick up to Peter II’s degree on the mantelpiece. Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz II. Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III shifts awkwardly. Patrick doesn’t think he’d be able to push another baby out if he knew it were to be cursed so. “We’ll keep it in mind.” Patrick smiles sweetly. 

Pete hisses in his direction, “Babe, don’t encourage him!” 

“Don’t panic,” Patrick replies when Peter II is back to gazing lovingly at Joey. “As soon as I’m done being all broody over Joey, you’re getting a snip.”

“Ah. Okay. Right... Wait- what?!”


	12. Patrick Wins the Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah! We’re finally at the end! Thanks for sticking with this so far!   
> Aminta xx

August 2027:

“Pete.”

“Yes, baby?”

“You think it’ll be quieter when Bronx goes to college?” 

“Yeah, I guess so. We’ll find out pretty soon.”

“With Louie doing her exams, and Joey in middle school, doing all her clubs, marching band, you know, it’s gonna be pretty quiet when they all go back to school.”

“I know! We don’t even get to see Bronx again ‘til Christmas once he goes.”

“I’m gonna miss driving him everywhere.” 

“And I’m gonna miss you complaining about driving him everywhere.” 

“We’re gonna have loads more spare time.” 

“A little bit, I guess. Why are you so hung up on spare time?” 

“Well, there’s something I’m gonna start fitting in again.” Patrick takes a deep sniff of his untouched red wine, sets it down, and burrows a little further into Pete’s side. 

“As long as it’s not cooking with Andy every Sunday night, I’m cool with it. I can’t stand quinoa.” 

Patrick giggles. “It’s more literal than that. I was thinking... my beloved black maternity jeans?” 

“Please don’t binge eat. It’s not good for you.” 

“No, silly!” Patrick slaps Pete playfully on the arm, then takes his wrist lightly and guides it through the blankets to touch where his stomach is already pushing out a little. Pete spreads his palm flat on the warm surface of Patrick’s cotton t-shirt (it’s The Damned Things, and quite old). His eyes glitter with hope. “I’m pregnant.” 

“Really?” Pete rubs the bump as if to make sure. “Another baby?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick says softly, watching Pete’s eyes in the candlelight. “I’m just gone ten weeks, and I wanted you to come to the first scan. It’s on Monday. I cleared you calendar with DCD2.” 

“Of course I’ll come, baby! This is great -I had no idea!” 

“I worked it out, and I think I conceived on our anniversary. I’m due March 15th.”

“Wow, this is... I can’t believe this, baby! Thank you, I love you so much! I didn’t wanna pester you for another because I knew you were happy, but -god, this is more than I ever dreamed of...” 

“I’m really glad I didn’t make you have that operation.” 

“Me too. My junk is precious.”

“Not as precious as mine. I’ve got your baby in my junk.” 

“Quiet. You love my junk, you know you do, or we wouldn’t be in this situation, would we?” 

“I wanted you to know, also, I had a blood test done at the doctor’s office, and I found out the baby’s sex.” 

“This is horrible of me, but please don’t say it’s a boy.” 

“You’re safe, it’s another girl.” 

“Oh thank God! I really didn’t want to have to name a kid after myself!” Pete shakes with relief, and leans into Patrick.

“I think I know what I want to call her.” Patrick bites his lip. 

“Eager beaver. What were you thinking?” Pete kisses Patricks neck.

“Martinique.”


End file.
